


Eternity in These Pages (with you) [SUBJECT TO CHANGE]

by HalizaTomran



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Eventual Romance, Hurt John Watson, I, M/M, Mary is dead, Mystery, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, References to Moriarty, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, Slow To Update, Violence, i dont know how to use tags welp, long drawn description
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalizaTomran/pseuds/HalizaTomran
Summary: Chaos. That is what the death of Mary had brought about in the lives of Sherlock and John. That, and bitter cold distance. Toxic habits come up, there are more questions than answers and a case crops up that seems to take more than just wit to solve.(I am SO bad at summaries, oh god.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 6





	Eternity in These Pages (with you) [SUBJECT TO CHANGE]

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I don’t know why I’m doing this- I just miss angst in my life I guess? As serious as this chapter reads, this fic isn’t serious at all (in the sense that *I’m* not going to take it seriously; the fic itself is going to be angsty and serious as hell :)) Also before anyone bashes me (though c’mon- 4 people are reading this) yes, two of the dialogues are straight from the show. But this won’t be a regular occurrence, I promise. Also, season four doesn’t happen in this fic (but John cheating does happen), it takes off right after Mary dies. And yes, please don't have high expectations for this one, I'm still figuring it out :) So that’s it I guess? I hope you enjoy it. H xx. 

They all said the same thing. Life at 221B Baker Street could never change. And to an extent, it was true. No amount of murders, break-ins, explosions, thefts or violent crimes seemed to touch the chaotic routine that was forever followed in 221B. Life was the same (which was a rather strange thing, because nothing about living there had consistency). Until it wasn’t. And John Watson thought that it wouldn’t be in the future too because he wasn’t going back there again. And he had said that when Sherlock had ‘died’ as well but this time, no one was coming back to life. He meant it when he said that he wasn’t going to set foot inside that house. Not now, not ever. Not after Mary. He couldn’t.

In the matter of a few minutes, he had become the most alone man in the world. “No, no, no!,” he shouted, pushing his hands into his hair. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he was meant to be happy, normal for once. She was gone. _Gone._ He had seen it with his own eyes, just barely, and it hurt so much more because this wasn’t the first time that he was feeling this.

He had come straight to his house from the aquarium, ignoring Greg’s suggestion of spending the night at Baker Street. He had a motherless baby in his hands, an empty side of the bed, text messages of guilt glaring from his phone and so much anger. He didn’t know towards whom he felt it, but it was there, wrapping its vicious tentacles around his heart. On second thought, Sherlock- he was mad at him, _so_ mad at him; he had promised. He had promised and now it was too late. God, he hated Sherlock Holmes.

_Liar._

John shook his head. He wasn’t lying. Sherlock had killed his wife, he had broken his promise- he hated him.

_Liar. He’s not the one you hate, John. C’mon, you know the trut-_

“Stop it,” John muttered with a tremble in his voice and slammed the glass of water in his hand on the table. He was _so_ tired. 

At the same time, as predicted by John, life in 221B had very suddenly changed. Not just changed, it felt like life in 221B had _died_ . Mrs Hudson had seen a lot of scary stuff in all the years of being landlady for Sherlock and John but she had never witnessed anything this frightening. She had heard of what had happened and knew that this would be disastrous for both the boys. What she hadn’t expected was Sherlock coming home alone, visibly shaken (that was something that happened very very rarely), and quiet, oh, _so_ quiet. He waved her off when she asked him if he was fine and collapsed in his armchair, arms positioned in their natural elbows-on-the-armrest-joint-palms-under-the-chin way. What scared Mrs Hudson was the slight tremble in his fingers when he accepted the teacup from her, the very subtle, almost unnoticeable disorientation in his movements. You see, she had never seen Sherlock being affected by something so much. He would look completely fine to people who didn’t know him- his stoic, emotionless persona somehow remained untouched. But Mrs Hudson knew better, so she left him with his cup of tea, made just the way he liked it and hurried downstairs, for she understood that privacy was what Sherlock needed right now.

Sherlock didn’t even notice that there was an extra spoon of sugar in his tea. His eyes were trained on the chair right opposite to him, the emptiness of which was creating a havoc in his brain. He didn’t understand what had happened. Why would someone who had everything in their life take a bullet for him? Him of all people? Mary was emotionally aware and intelligent enough to know the value that hung over her life and the lack of it that hung over his. He simply had nothing to lose, yet Mary had given up everything to keep him alive. It did not make sense to him, it was illogical and he knew Mary enough to know that she was, indeed, somewhat a person of reasoning like he was. Yet here they all were, and she was dead. 

Sherlock got up and started pacing. He needed a smoke, something, _anything._ He was not used to being overwhelmed by so many emotions. He had very efficiently locked those away behind unbudging steel doors of logic and reason, because their existence was nothing but an inconvenience that unfortunately came free of cost with being human. Till today, that is, because these rusty, unused, emotionally-charged thoughts were now running haywire in his usually meticulously compartmentalized brain. He didn't like this, he almost felt out of control. Sentiment- him allowing himself, even subconsciously so, to indulge in the sentiment that the shock of Mary’s death had evoked had proven to be his mistake. _Don’t get involved,_ his brother’s voice rang in his head. No, no, he didn’t need his brother right now, he was agitated enough already. 

He took in a breath and collapsed yet again on his chair. There was a deep sinking in his stomach- was that...guilt? Everyone that he had ever interacted with had expressed their disdain when he deduced someone. Some people had rained swears at him, some had shouted, some had called him a freak- from eye-rolls to violence, he had seen every reaction that told him clearly, that his condescending deduction of a person’s life was not appreciated. Yet, he continued to show off every single time. He had, today as well and it had cost Mary’s life. He thus realised that though Mary’s motives behind saving him were still very confusing, there was clear logic behind John’s anger towards him. He had killed his wife, after all, the mother to his child. And this was not the first time that he had caused him pain like this. John had every right and every reason to hate him, and just because emotions were abhorrent to him, did not mean he was going to undermine the importance of John’s sentiments- he had learnt this the hard way.

He rubbed his temples as he felt himself tear up a bit. He had killed Mary. Yes, he had not approved of her, had always felt a pang of jealousy when he looked at her, had felt a dull ache in the heart every time he was around her yet, she had started to become a friend. And now there was nothing he could do, except exist with the knowledge that he had broken John Watson. 

He came to the conclusion that he was right when he said that John was stupid, because he seemed have missed what was clear as day, what had been told to him the very first day that he had met him. It had always been quite apparent that Sherlock Holmes was a psychopath and anyone who committed the stupidity of considering him a friend would one day, inevitably, stand beside a dead body and wonder what the hell they had done to deserve him. Stupid John and his Stupid Kind Heart had, alas, met the same consequence. Sherlock had anticipated the day that John would leave but that didn’t mean it didn’t make him crave for just one more day with him, just an hour maybe? Since John had entered his life, the motive behind everything he did had stopped being just his work- everything seemed to revolve around something else as well, and of course, that was John.

Over the period of the five years that Sherlock had known John, his answer to every question ‘why’, had gradually become something that always started with ‘because John…’. It was almost hilarious, the way every rule that Sherlock had ever made for himself just sort of melted away when it came to John and the incredible part here was that he wasn't really against it. There was a four letter long deduction that he had made in his head about this, but he wouldn't admit it to be real, not out loud. Whatever it was, he had grown horribly dependent on John’s existence and he wasn’t sure how that made him feel right now. He just knew that he had messed up bad and that he just needed John Watson sitting in his chair right now. 

Sherlock fell asleep on the armchair that night. And when he woke up the next day, at one in the noon, it almost felt like everything that happened the day before had just been a bad, bad dream. But of course it hadn’t. Sherlock got up and stretched a bit, cracking his back to relieve the muscles that had cramped up after falling asleep in the chair. And then, he began his search for his secret stash that he knew was hidden by Mrs. Hudson in this room itself. 

When Mrs Hudson came up to the flat about two hours later to see if Sherlock had woken up, she found him high as a kite, playing what sounded vaguely like pop music on his violin. “Oh, Sherlock,” she murmured disappointedly, scuttering towards the overpacked table to keep the cup in her hand. “How did you find it?” She asked, making Sherlock turn around. “Oh it was quite simple,” he said off-offhandedly, putting down his violin and then turning to the mess on the desk. He squinted at the papers in the pile, and shook his head. How utterly boring. “You kept checking my refrigerator last week, the sleeve of your dress had ink stains yesterday night, which were obviously from the broken ink-pot beside my skull; you prefer using pencils, it couldn’t be a leak from your pen. I could explain further but I just don’t feel like it. You ought to get better at hiding my stuff after all these years of experience, but then, I cannot possibly blame you for having a dull mind,” he muttered emotionlessly as he pushed the papers off the table. He sighed and looked at Mrs Hudson. His eyes softened and he told her to wait. “If you ever think I’m becoming a bit...full of myself, cocky” he whispered, bending down to pick the papers up “or overconfident, just say the word ‘Norbury’ to me, would you?”

“Norbury?”

“Just that. I’d be very grateful.”

___________________________________________________________

_Sherlock,_

_I don’t really know what to say to you anymore. I was so, so, so alone before I found you and now I am so, so, so alone because of you. I just hope you know that this- these stunts you pull all the time- this is not fair. Not to me, not to anyone who decides that they care about you. You treat your own life like it is a game that you must win, but you must know that my life isn’t one. People don’t get extra hearts to miraculously come back to life and continue as if nothing ever happened here. There are no second chances, and I had thought that you must have learnt this by now, but you haven’t and that does not surprise me, because however big of a genius you are, you still are an idiot right down to the core. I don’t quite know what I was expecting from you when I decided to stay despite what everyone said, but I cannot do this anymore. So I’m leaving before it’s too late, before I lose another piece of my heart to your carelessness._

_Goodbye,_

_Dr. J Watson._

John folded the paper and kept it on the table, wiping away the tear that threatened to fall onto his cheek. His head was hurting, as it had been since yesterday night. Rosie hadn’t slept at all as well, and trying to calm her down every time she woke up drove John to the verge of tears. So he gave in and called Molly in the morning so that he could get some sleep. Being awake was painful right now yet being asleep felt wrong. There were traces of Mary all around him and he almost expected her to come in through the door with the cheeky smile of hers and say that it was some horrible prank. 

Laying in bed, John could hear Molly singing softly to Rosie in the living room. He took out his phone. The phone number was still there, the text messages were still glaring at him. He hated himself for this, he hated this woman, hated every text message, hated the attraction that he had felt, hated every mindless action that he took during the four months before Mary’s death. With a blurry vision and trembling fingers, John deleted the girl’s number, and all the texts. He wished he could delete his memories the same way. He sighed. He was so _angry_ . He was exhausted of grief, exhausted of guilt, exhausted of love, couldn’t seem to escape it whatever he decided to do, always thought that the next time would be better, but it never was. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve this. Things are _supposed_ to change, that is the nature of all existence- it is a circle that you travel around from the start of life, progressing slowly ahead, ahead, ahead till you come back to where you started. Yet his existence seemed to be stuck at the same point on the circle even as time went on, people changed, circumstances changed; he was there singing the same notes for everyone like a record looping over and over again. And honestly, he was bored. He was bored of the same action followed by the same fucking consequence, the air around him was old, thick and stagnant and he needed movement. He needed new breath to fill him till it hurt to hold it in his lungs, he needed Fresh and this- this wasn’t it. It was alarming how he craved the end of the line (or the beginning, it was one and the same after all) more than anything now. He laughed. In the defense of the universe, this indeed wasn’t where he had expected to be when he thought of the future five years back. 

He got up, he wouldn’t be sleeping now so he might as well went out. He took the note with him and walked into the living room. Molly was sitting in the armchair that Mary had so loved. She turned around when she heard John come in. “Rosie just fell asleep, I put her in the crib,” she said with a hesitant smile. She looked tired too. “I thought you were sleeping,” she muttered, getting up and rubbing her hands on her trousers. 

“Can’t.”

“What can I do for you? Please let me do something…,”

John was seeing red just by the sympathy in her voice. He really didn’t need that, but he controlled himself because he knew that she meant well. “Just, if...if Sherlock comes by, to help or something, tell him that I would have anyone, _anyone_ but him. And give him this, will you?” He muttered. The tears threatened to fall from his eyes now. 

“John, I-“

“Please?”

‘O-Okay,” Molly whispered and stuffed the note in the pocket of her cardigan. Her heart sunk as she watched John head into Rosie’s room. This man who walked away just then was so full of hurt that he was blinded by hatred. John had just given her a blatant lie to tell, she knew that the truth was, John craved Sherlock’s presence at that moment. He would have him without any persuasion if Sherlock asked just one more time, and then one more time after that. She knew that he couldn’t hate him, couldn’t stay away for too long before it hurt too much. John looked at Sherlock the way she looked at the detective too. She mentally said a prayer- everything between John and Sherlock had been miraculous and this was really not the way it should end. 

It took quite some time (a day) for Sherlock to make up his mind and head over to John’s house. He trudged up to the porch, hands in the pockets of his coat, ready to take anything that John decided to give him. He rang the doorbell and it was Molly who opened it, with a whining Rosie on her hip. Neither of them had visibly had any sleep the previous night, which meant that so hadn't. John. The list of things that he needed to apologize for was growing and growing and growing. He sighed. He had never had to do anything like this before. Consoling people wasn’t really his forte. He just knew how to go on a rapid destruction spree and when he came to the end of it, to look back and mutter a small ‘how unfortunate’. He knew how to make ruin of humble cottages without a care for the homeless that he left behind, yet today he had to pick up small handfuls of damaged trust and ask earnestly if he could get a place to sleep in John’s battered tumbledown heart. 

“I just wondered...how things were going, if there was something that I could do.”

And that broke Molly’s heart, because she wanted to pull him into the house, tell him how much of a mess John had become without anyone to hold him. But she was no one to do anything against what John said he needed. She didn’t hold that kind of right over them both. So she brought out the note from her pocket and thrust it into Sherlock’s hands.

“It’s, uh, it’s from John,” 

This was a shock. “Right,” Sherlock said, shaking himself out of it. 

“You...you don’t have to open it right now. John...he said-”

“-Yes?”

“That if you were, er, to come by offering help or something, to tell you that...that he would have anyone but you,” 

Molly returned inside tearfully. Sherlock. had expected this, had known that letting him in was like letting an assassin with murderous hands tucked in his pockets, a free pass to the hospital that his last victim was healing in. He had run out of chances and John had run out of fucks to give, understandably so. Sherlock didn’t know what heartbreak felt like, but it probably felt like this. Like losing, not fighting anymore because nothing could change. This felt like death. 

Sherlock had been wounded so many times, had been near death so many times, yet he had survived every single time somehow. He wouldn’t admit it, but nothing had burned as this did. And he was sure that nothing would. 

_He would have anyone but you,_ Molly’s words rang in his head. Anyone But Him had a lot of people in it. _Anyone_ but him? Sherlock hadn’t realized when he had reached the very end of the end. He fiddled with the letter while he sat in the taxi, the words in it heaving down on his fingers, beckoning him to not read them just yet, to give them some more time in untouched obliviousness, for nothing was still out of hand till he read them- he could still enjoy the few moments of ignorance that they offered. He decided against it. He already held them in his hands- the words of finality- so there was no point in delaying the judgement. Defeat was upon him. 

And so he read the letter. By the time he reached 221B, he had read it several times. They were just a hundred and ninety-two words in John’s scrawly handwriting yet Sherlock dissected every syllable and every phrase as if it would reveal some new hidden meaning that wasn’t as harsh and cold as the one that showed itself plain and bare on the prescription paper of John’s clinic. He found nothing.

He had always mocked John about his writing but he had to admit that John’s words were most effective because here was Sherlock Holmes, shedding silent, subconscious tears over a letter in his bed a few hours later. He had always been aware of the small shelf-life of relationships when it came to him yet he had failed to protect himself from the transience of trust, loyalty and compassion this time. He had been, pardon the french, _stupid_ to let himself dream a bit and dive headfirst into this camaraderie with no backup plans whatsoever. And now he was crying over someone. He had never cried over someone before (crying in itself was an uncommon spectacle in his life). 

He got up, went outside, sat at his desk and pushed some things off to make space. He took a pen and clenched his eyes shut for a second. And then started writing on a new sheet of paper. 

_John,_

_You are right, my life is indeed a game that I must win and I realize that it was rather inconsiderate of me to drag you into it. You see, I am not that used to having a player to play alongside. I don’t let you speak much, maybe if I had listened to your words I_ _would have seen your reluctance. You are the best man I know, the only person who was stupidly selfless enough to let me call you a friend. Thank you for that. I’m incapable of giving you what you deserve so I approve of your decision to leave. Of having anyone but me._

_I apologize for everything._

_I was alone too, you know. And I am now._

_Goodbye,_

_Sherlock._

He reread the note, and laughed at his state. How funny, how very funny. He hated what had become of him, what John had made of him. He laughed yet again at this thought because he had still found something else to hate, to point fingers at, despite everything. He tore the paper in his hands and threw the pieces into the furnace. There was a growing sense of freedom that Sherlock felt as he saw his note burn. He seldom thought irrationally but he sent out a wish into the universe in that moment, that John would also feel the liberty that Sherlock was feeling- even more, actually. Independence had always given him stability and it was something he had had five years back. Yet for once, freedom was just as stifling, liberty was loneliness and he wished he was still chained to John Watson

_There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery._

~Dante.

**_3757 words._ **


End file.
